Poem 7, June 7
On Poros, a Greek Island
From the second floor balcony
of the hotel, I look out across the azure sea
toward the mountain chain, not as tall
as the mountains of eastern Kentucky,
& one the towering Rockies would dwarf.
I’m looking for a poem
in the form locals call the sleeping lady,
but I do not find it.
I do not find it in the young couple,
walking hand in hand along the wharf.
I see it in the ripples of a sea so clear
that its rocky, volcanic sediment bottom
seems to be only inches beneath the small
fishing boat anchored off shore.
I see it in the hand of the absent painter
whose aesthetic eye visualized how to create
a canvas with movement full
of the suppleness & grace of a sprightly
young dancer center stage,
the one whose contortions takes the breath away.